


Operation: Not-So-Secret Vacation

by EmeraldSage



Series: The Holiday Collection [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Existing Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Not so secret vacation, Overprotective England, Overprotective Family Members, RusAme Holiday Prompt, RusAmeHoliday, Secret Vacation, So does London tbh, That seems to be becoming a theme in my stories, huh, or rather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-06 01:55:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8730091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: RusAme Holiday Prompt #2: VacationSo...that secret thing...yeah...its not so secret anymore.Rated M cautiously, for mature themes and implied sexual relationship. Oh, and demonic, overprotective England, though he's got nothing on the one from Prompt#1.





	

 

            _Tickets purchased. Check._

_Hotels booked. Transport cards loaded. Check and Check._

_Christmas gifts_ …he whirled around, ducking slightly to avoid the low hanging lamp, and bend over backwards to catch a glimpse of the underside of his bed. He caught sight of gleaming wrapping paper and soft, satin ribbons, and grinned. _Check to that as well_.

            _Fun stuff_. A lusty smirk lifted his lips. _Check_.

            _Clothes, thermals, and extra jackets packed. Check._

_Rain boots and umbrella packed, too. Check._

_Leave clearance from boss…_ he scanned his e-mail, open in front of him, and smiled when he saw the affirmative signature and permission granted, from a surprising number of _two_ people. _Double Check, hell yes!_

            _Matt’s invite for Iggy and Francis sent. Check._

_Awesome! Operation: Secret Vacation is a go!_

He tapped a few buttons on his computer, smiling widely. The screen turned blue, with the ellipses popping up in the middle, and he smoothed out his expression to pleasant and warm, as befitting one of the pair of lovers who hadn’t seen the other in _months_. Nothing suspicious could come through, and knowing his lover, the other would pick up on it immediately. He was sure no one knew him better, except, maybe his old man.

            _Incoming call_ on the screen drew his attention, and his face structured itself into his usual Hollywood smile. It was time for one hell of a performance.

* * *

 

            “Come on a trip with me, boo?” he asked, pleadingly. He knew his eyes were slightly wider than usual, so he pushed his lower lip out just a _little_ , and bit down hesitantly. He made sure to look slightly unsure as well as slightly pleading. He could see the way Ivan’s violet eyes widened when he realized the look he was being given, but couldn’t look away fast enough for him to avoid the full effect of it. After a few minutes of silence – in which Alfred made sure his eyes grew ever so slightly wider, the lighting was angled to emphasize his beautiful baby blues, and there was a thin film of tears lining his eyelashes (though he made sure they didn’t fall; Ivan got off on him crying, the sadist).

            “Do not call me boo,” the other nation finally managed, trying to recoil from the power that was America’s full on Puppy-Dog Pout, trademarked, even with the barrier of the computer screen. No one in the world – save England, and then only occasionally – could resist the blue-eyed blonde’s intense puppy dog eyes; the pleading look he would level at them wanted to make them wail at the thought of denying it, and certainly the moment the look turned on any of their bosses, they suddenly felt ashamed for not listening to the blond nation. It was their only saving grace that the teenage nation only seemed to use it for things he wanted personally – as Alfred F. Jones – and not as America. They’d all be royally fucked if he did.

            Alfred brightened, “So you’re coming!” he exclaimed, before he continued, not even leaving a breath of room for the other nation to deny him, “I’ll send you the plane ticket right now! Don’t forget to check your e-mail, Vanya~!” Then, before Ivan could do more than splutter in mild outrage – _did you already buy the tickets without my permission, Alik?!_ – he closed out of their Skype chat and hit send on the e-mail draft he’d had prepared since he’d bought the tickets two weeks ago.

            A massive grin curved his lips. This was going to be an awesome vacation.

            Well…with one _small_ issue.

* * *

 

            “He’s doing **_WHAT?!_** ” Matthew cringed at the pitch his former guardian had reached at the news he’d just delivered. Francis, who’d been sitting with them, right next to Arthur, lowered his hands, having anticipated the island nation’s reaction.

            “ _Mathieu_ ,” his _papa_ said tiredly, “usually I don’t agree with _Angleterre_ , but this time…could you repeat yourself, _cher_? I’m positive I misunderstood that.” Matthew wanted to cringe again at the hope in the French nation’s voice. He’d wanted to think he misunderstood it as well.

            “ _C’est vrai, papa_ ,” he said reluctantly, “Alfie called me a few days ago saying he’d gotten the clearance to go on vacation for a week or so, and asked if I would keep him updated with anything he might miss. But, I heard from – from Katya that Russia was going on vacation at the same time. And I checked Alfred’s flight itinerary – I may have hacked his password, but I just _had_ to check, you see – and, and,” he breathed in deeply, and opened his mouth to reveal the truth, only…he couldn’t.

            “And what, Matthew?” Arthur growled, irate, shrugging off the calming hand Francis had placed on his shoulder, “What are we missing?”

            “Alfred booked two tickets!” he blurted, and the sudden silence was deafening. “One of them,” he continued hesitantly, “was under the name of Ivan Braginsky.”

            He breathed in, then out, then in again, and still there was silence. He dared to open his eyes – which he’d cringed shut when he blurted the information out – and saw the expression of mixed horror and fury covering Arthur’s face, alongside Francis’s frozen one.

            Oh, this wasn’t going to go over well _at all_.

            Poor Alfred, he’d never see it coming.

* * *

 

            Alfred didn’t know what made him choose London when he picked out his week long vacation this winter. He especially didn’t know what made him convince himself that he should drag Ivan along to the UK, especially when they both knew that no one important to them knew the secret about their relationship.

            Oh, they’d tried their hardest to keep it a secret. He and Ivan had been in a romantic relationship since shortly after his Civil War, back in the 1860s, early 70s. Ivan had taken care of him during the War, when his beloved states – his beautiful children – were ripping him apart from within because they believed he didn’t love them equally. He did, oh of course he did. They were his children, and even if they misbehaved, waged war in his name, and committed atrocities he could never support, they were still his children and he adored them all. He’d become a healer during his war; a doctor who tended to the wounded on both sides of the Mason-Dixie Line, regardless of what his government thought of his intervention (or lack thereof, as was the case in many an argument). But Russia had been there, with gentle hands, and a strong presence. And shortly after the war, when they’d purchased Alaska from the worried, tired nation, they’d grown even closer.

            And then, close friendship had turned into love. And with love bloomed lust.

            But America had still be precariously near the age of a child amongst the elder nations – the youngest out of them all, save perhaps fledgling Australia – and Russia’s attentions would draw him negative repercussions all over the globe. So, out of necessity and caution, they’d kept their relationship a secret, kept it appropriately chaste, promising to expose it to the world once America had reached an appropriate age.

            But then the Great War came, and the Bolsheviks followed. And the man America met while fretting, worried, in _their_ home in Alaska, where they’d often met before, was _not_ his Russia. Oh, he looked like Russia, spoke like Russia, and had his Ivan’s precious memories of them together. He shared the possessiveness and the lust that Alfred’s Ivan had had towards him, but on a far more intense, dangerous level. And America, so young, so precarious, just barely keeping up with his European counterparts, had been _scared_.

            Their relationship had barely been preserved in the years leading up to the Second World War. Their governments tolerated each other, and so they pretended to do so as well in public, but in private, it had been another story entirely. Alfred had to _hide_ when Ivan arrived in his country for diplomatic reasons, and he never went up to Alaska, either. It made him sad, but it kept him safe. Ivan’s persistence in his more sexual attentions had become more assertive, and Alfred wondered if he’d have the strength to resist the nation wearing the face of the man he loved with all his heart.

            On the eve of the Cold War, he had his answer.

            He shouldn’t have gone to Alaska that night. He’d been so worried about the rising tensions between the two nations, between the two of them as people, and the dangerous sentiment he could already begin to feel emerging from his children, trapping them in a deadly cycle of fear and anger. He had to be sure everything would be okay.

            But Russia had found him that night in Alaska, brimming with the power that designated him a world superpower. And, for the first time ever, they fought each other. They traded blow for blow as the wrestled and attacked each other through the halls of their once home, and until they’d stumbled their way into the bedroom, the fighting had been fairly equal. Until Alfred had caught sight of the room they’d shared – still young and in love as he had been, he refused to keep separate quarters when Ivan visited, despite the issues with propriety – and Ivan had taken advantage of his lapse in concentration to pin him down. On the bed, of all things.

            Which spoke for itself in what it meant had happened that night. Ivan had always wanted to be the first to take him to bed. Now, he had been.

            Their relationship only grew in its sexually charged state of madness. More and more often, he’d found himself wandering around in back alleys or deserted streets on either side of the Iron Curtain. He’d find a bar, a tavern, hell, he’d even found an abandoned library that someone had looted but forgotten to demolish, and then Ivan would find him, and they would fuck. It wasn’t lovemaking; it was vicious, demanding, dominating, and possessive. And until the Soviet Union fell, it was all he had to hold himself together.

            But it did fall, and one October morning, he woke in his little cottage in Alaska, where the snow was falling lightly, and there was the barest hint of sunlight streaming in through the windows, to Ivan kneeling on the floor at his bedside, practically sprawled in his sleep. His head was resting on his stomach – and idly, he’d wondered how he’d slept through Ivan stumbling into the house, drunk that he could tell from the scent of alcohol on his breath, and onto him – and at some point, his arm had migrated to fasten itself tightly around his waist.

            He’d watched as Ivan stirred with the movement he’d made, violet eyes blinking blearing in the sunlight with a gentility he’d never seen in the post-Revolutionary nation he knew. For a second, all was peaceful in the dawn light; but then, Ivan caught sight of Alfred, who was watching him, and in seconds, Alfred found himself in an embrace like vice, arms locked around his form making it impossible to get out. But Ivan’s arms were trembling, and there was an almost gentle reverence in the way he pressed a kiss to his forehead, then to his cheeks, and finally – hesitantly, almost waiting for permission – to his lips. The same way that Ivan had always bid him goodbye before he had to leave for home once more, before the Revolution had turned lethargic sunny days spent with only the pleasure of each other’s company into lust filled arguments and physical fights that ended with a wrecked bed and shattered hearts.

            Even though they had reconciled – the USSR would forever be a part of his Russia, and he saw that in the man, but part of him wouldn’t have it any other way, and loved him no less – after the Cold War, the tensions between their peoples and the other nations made it a very bad idea to reveal the extent to which their relationship existed. As years passed, and a more personal dimension grew into their relationship dynamic, Alfred had to worry not just about the rest of the world finding out, but specifically, his brother and his father figures. The rest of the world he could handle – Lord knows they all thought he and Russia had been sleeping with each other throughout the Cold War _anyways_ – but any time he ever thought of his family’s reactions, of _Arthur’s reaction_ , he always cringed.

            One reason the world had pretty much left him alone in his fledgling years after the American Revolution had been because, despite their then-current enmity, Arthur was still his father, and still turned into a psychopathic monster out for blood whenever there was a whisper of someone hurting his baby boy.

            He _really_ didn’t want to see his father’s reaction when Arthur found out about his and Russia’s relationship, especially when he discovered what had happened in the Cold War years. Hence, all of his preparations to keep things a secret while he was on vacation.

            He’d made sure that both Arthur and Francis had accepted Matthew’s Christmas invite for a few weeks, so he knew they would both be in Canada, and therefore, on the other side of the Atlantic. So he and Ivan would have a relaxing, week-long vacation in the UK during the Christmas holidays, so they would experience the magic of Christmas in Europe all the while enjoying themselves and celebrating their relationship as well.

            He bit his lip worriedly, eyes glazing over as he leant against a pillar in Heathrow’s arrivals section. There was so much that could go wrong in his plan; there were too many risks, especially if Arthur decided to return early, or if something called him back. He might not be able to sense Ivan on his land, just that another personification was there, but he would recognize Alfred immediately. And that would bring on questions he really didn’t want to answer.

            “Alfred?” a voice inquired, and he blinked up at the Russian nation, who’d come to a stop in front of him, where he’d slid down the pillar he’d been leaning against. He brightened when he caught sight of violet eyes and tossed himself at the elder nation.

            “You’re here~!” he grinned, beaming. He had been worried for a bit that the other nation wouldn’t have made it. Just because he’d allowed America to con him into a relaxing holiday didn’t mean he would actually go through with it, sometimes. But here he was! Oh, they would have so much fun!

            “Have you been waiting long, America?” the other asked him, quietly, after studying him for a bit. “You looked distracted when I came over.” Alfred gave him a sheepish smile, which made Ivan sigh, as that was answer enough to the elder who knew him so very well.

            “Come on,” he said, tugging the other away as he snagged his own bag from next to hem. “Let me show you London,” he smiled, and there was something sad in his expression as he dragged the other nation outside into the cold air and moved to wave down a taxi. _Let me show you the heart Arthur showed me, let me show you where I’ve lived_.

* * *

 

            _Ring. Ring. Riiiiiiiin-click._

“Do you have news?”

            “Sorry, sir. You were right. He’s just debarked at Heathrow, and it seems he’s waiting for someone else to join him. He’s still in arrivals.” The phone in his hand creaked, the plastic of the material falling victim to his superior strength.

            “Keep an eye on him. Inform me immediately of any new developments.”

            “Yes sir.”

            “Oh, and one more thing…”

            “Sir?”

            “Make _absolutely sure_ that no one knows what you’re doing. And don’t let the Prime Minister be aware of it, either. No need for an international incident to develop… _yet_.”

            A gulp was audible through the phone, and he felt a vicious smirk come to his lips.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Good.” _Click_.

            _Flip. Tap, tap, tap. Press._

_Ring. Ring. Riiiin-click._

“Sir?”

            “Have my jet on standby.”

            “Yes sir.”

* * *

 

            Their vacation almost seemed to go by in a whirl. It had only been a few days, but Christmas was almost upon them, and the streets buzzed with people rushing to do their last minute shopping. For the last few days, they’d walked around London, taking in the usual tourist sites along with some of the not-so-well known places that he only knew about through Arthur. He’d dragged the other through different restaurants each night, letting the larger nation pick the cuisine type while Alfred decided on the place. They’d even gone to Harrods for the pre-Christmas rush, and he had had so much fun getting lost in there! Ivan had to call security to find him because he’d gotten so lost, and his cell had mysteriously stopped working in one of the wings. They had fun in Hamley’s toy store, too, although he was sure Ivan had just been indulging him when they’d gone through all five stories of the toy store with careful diligence. But they’d done other things as well – seen a play at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, gone for formal dining downtown, and gone to one of the war memorials – that appealed to the other nation’s more formal sense of activity.

            Today would be the most fun, he thought, as he twined his gloved fingers through Ivan’s, pulling himself closer to the other nation’s warmth as the breeze tugged at their coats and scarves. It was a lovely Christmas Eve, and everyone was hustling and bustling.

            It was early in the day, still, and they – just like many other people, it seemed – were taking advantage of the warmth provided by the sunshine. He could feel the pale gold rays sink into the visible skin of his face, a lovely contrast to the slap of cold against his cheeks. He and Ivan had traveled out of London for the day, though, admittedly, not far. They’d spent the early hours of Christmas Eve getting presents – for each other, and for the orphanage down the street from where they were staying (Alfred had insisted) – and collecting groceries for the meal he’d cook tonight. The kitchen in the hotel had allowed him to have free reign over the appliances to cook, and he’d been ecstatic. Many nations believed that because Arthur had raised him, he couldn’t cook at all, but it was quite the opposite, really. His cooking was nearly as good as Francis’s.

            “Have we everything we need?” Ivan hummed, tightening his grip on Alfred’s hand, and he smiled up at the taller nation.

            “I want to find a wreath,” he declared promptly, “for the door,” he elaborated, before proceeding into a rant detailing what kind of wreath he was thinking about, what color the garlands would be, or the bow. Ivan hummed in the appropriate pauses in his discourse – which, of course, Alfred noticed – as they walked towards the small enclosure not too far away that was selling both wreaths and Christmas trees. The violet-eyed nation smiled, before excusing himself to go find someone who could tell them about a schedule for an event they had planned later on. They’d planned to go to Winter Wonderland later tonight, before dinner, and they had to make sure they’d have time.

            So it was Alfred alone who strode through the boughs of evergreen trees, searching for the perfect wreath for their door. It was only temporary, but it felt right. He bypassed a lot of the expensive, gaudy ones he would’ve normally sprung for, aware that Ivan’s tastes were more subdued, and this wasn’t _his house_ , so he didn’t have _all_ the say. But the wreath he did end up choosing was relatively elegant – it’s boughs twisted lovingly, entwined with red satin ribbon and mistletoe, sprigs of holly and cedar entwined within the bow, outlined with silver and gold thread gleaming in the lighting of the enclosure – and sufficiently extravagant for his tastes, despite being very simple. He paid for it with a smile, walking out of the enclosure, tickets in one hand, wreath and box in the other as he strode towards the tube station where he’d meet Ivan to head on back.

            Or at least, that was the original plan.

            “ _Alfie?!_ ” a voice asked, incredulous, and he felt his insides freeze solid before shattering as he turned around slowly, fingers clenching tightly around the wreath in his hands. Green eyes watched him, wide and disbelieving, with fire engine red-orange hair falling, unkempt, into the other man’s face. The man’s skin was pale, but there were plenty of freckles that were present, dotting the man’s skin. Along with all of that, his accent was pretty damn unmistakable.

            “Uncle Alistair,” he greeted nervously, recognizing that his uncle was, indeed, acting as his _uncle_ , not as Scotland. Which meant, to be clear, that Alfred was currently in the position of wayward, mischievous nephew who’d just been caught doing something _very_ bad that would come out _right now, damnit_ , or one blond-haired, thick-browed Englishman would be receiving a phone call within minutes. “What-What are you doing in London?”

            “I could ask _you_ the same bloody question, brat,” the man grunted, eyes gleaming as they studied him, the wreath in his hands, and the _two tickets_ for Winter Wonderland he’d clutched in his hand that revealed so much he almost wanted to let the wind yank them from his hands. “What are _you_ doin’ in your old man’s land when _he’s_ across the ocean in yours?”

            “Well, technically, he’s in Mattie’s land...” Alistair scoffed at the weak explanation, eyes still glinting in that unnervingly similar way that Arthur’s did when he knew there was something he wasn’t going to like in the explanation he was about to get. Well, what do you know, they’re actually brothers after all. He opened his mouth, probably to get to the point, when he was cut off.

            “Alik,” a voice called from the side, and he felt his eyes slide shut, thinking _why me_ , because he could practically _see_ his uncle’s eyes go from narrow and suspicious to wide and stunned and then to horrified comprehension, and back to outraged and narrow-eyed just from the sound of that voice. “I’ve found the schedule you were looking for, _dorogoy_ , we’re not that late – ah, Scotland. How _pleasant_ to see you.” And Ivan was wearing his glass crescent smile, the one that scared the shit out of everyone who saw it.

            Alistair was unfazed, and he had a feeling that would run through his entire family. Nothing gives you courage to stand up against someone than defending the virtuous honor of one of your family members, he thought sourly. Not that there was any _virtue_ of any sort to be protecting in the first place, in his case. They were a little over sixty years too late for that.

            _Oh God, Alistair was going to ask questions. And then he was going to call his dad_.

            “HolyShit, UncleAlpleasedon’tcalldad, pleasepleaseplease!!!!” Two sets of eyes blinked at him, before his uncle’s eyes narrowed – used to translating high-speed nonsense – and sent him a _look_.

            “And why _shouldn’t_ I call your father?” he barked, making him cringe. One phone call from Alistair and his father would be across the pond before he could even blink. And his uncle would hardly let him skip the country to avoid the consequences of this one. “How on _Gaea_ did you manage to keep this from us? How long has it been?”

            “That’s exactly what I wanted to know,” another voice spoke up menacingly, and all three of them whirled to face the one being he would’ve moved the entire world to _not see_ at that moment. Arthur’s eyes were murderous, glowing like hellfire as they looked on the trio that had gathered. His eyebrow’s were drawn together and furrowed; casting a shadow to the vicious, almost demonic glare they were being subject to. He almost felt his heart stop in his chest.

            From behind Arthur, coming to stand at his side, placing a hand gently on the island nation’s shoulder was Francis, who looked between him and Ivan with contemplation in his eyes. Matthew rounded them out – three for three – eyeing Ivan with the same look he gave to the people who bashed his hockey teams; you know, the same ones he would like to kick the shit out of with a polished hockey stick. He could feel Ivan’s grip on his waist – where he’d wound himself earlier, when Alistair had first made himself known – tighten almost imperceptibly.

            It was a showdown on Christmas Eve in the middle of a small London suburb, with all his family staring at the secret he and Ivan had been keeping for over a century.

            _Ah, shit_.

            So…he and Ivan had been revealed to his family over their Christmas vacation. That was certainly one for the memories, and he could feel the sudden hilarity bubble up. He felt the corner of his lips twitch, and the urge to laugh build up within him. And even with Arthur glaring at them – Ivan in particular – mercilessly, he couldn’t help the well of laughter that erupted from him.

            Everyone turned to look at him like he was crazy – though, honestly, that wasn’t an unfamiliar look.

            He waved away their stares, “S-Sorry,” he hiccupped, trying to repress the laughter, though a giggle still emerged occasionally, “It’s just…over _Christmas_ …” he dissolved into giggles again, and Alistair looked at him incredulously, muttering what sounded like _He’s utterly lost it_.

            But Ivan had relaxed at his side, Francis and Alistair looked a bit put out, Matthew looked a mix of upset and relieved at the same time, and Arthur only looked mildly murderous. He felt himself relaxing as some of the tension between them drained.

            “Maybe,” Matthew jumped in quickly, eyes darting around at the people watching their little confrontation with some degree of interest, “we should go somewhere else to discuss things?” Arthur switched from murderous to contemplative, and he breathed in deeply. That was good. Ivan opening his mouth to suggest moving to their hotel room was not, so he elbowed his lover before he could begin to do so. Ivan sent him a look, to which he returned a little more vicious one. He did _not_ want to bring his family to their hotel room. Arthur didn’t need the heart attack, and he didn’t need to prevent the old man from trying to castrate his lover.

            They’d left the lube and the half-empty box of condoms on the side-table in full view, after all. Not to mention the state of the sheets.

            He smiled innocently – if a tad nervously – at his father’s suspicious green eyes.

            Nope. _That_ , at least, was not happening.

            Some vacation, huh?

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did leave you there. Love you all :)


End file.
